The Case of the Thursday Rendezvous
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Watson's vanishing, Holmes is trying not to care, Mrs. Hudson is aggrieved and Gladstone's getting more food than he probably deserves.


_**The Case of the Thursday Rendezvous**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rated:** PG for snotty Land Ladies, annoyed detectives and secretive, sore Doctors

**Characters:** Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone (missing bull pup hence named in the recent movie)

**Warnings:** Eh, none, really.

**Note:** This is in response to KCS's request for Watson to have a habit which shocks Holmes. While this isn't so much a habit as a… well… thing that Watson does and Holmes's expression is O_O as much as :( and o_O, I hope it is satisfactory. I attempted to make it… plausible as well as a bit silly and dragged poor Mrs. Hudson into the fray so she could fret over our darling Doctor and do battle against our favorite detective. So, anyway, onward! Apologies for the… erm… lack of proper beta work.

* * *

It started after he and the Doctor had lived together for eight months, and the Doctor had reached a point of severe restlessness and eagerness to return to some sort of work. Initially, he'd watched the veteran spend most of his days in the house, his tan going to a sickly yellow as his health slowly improved. Upon signing the lease with the man, he'd gone through the trouble of researching the injuries and the illness Watson had procured on his tour and discovered that anything could cause relapse; London's smoggy atmosphere certainly, on a bad day, could be more than enough to push the man to bed rest.

He'd kept an eye on this, subtly, of course, marking the sort of days when Watson would venture into the world and which days he would remain indoors. When he felt like company on his expeditions, he would await an appropriate time to invite the doctor with him so that there would be no concerns for his well-being involved in the decision making. Why was he so careful? For the most logical reason, should something happen to his roommate, he would lose his fine rooms at Baker Street and be forced to take up lodging elsewhere. And while he tended to complain about Mrs. Hudson's fussing and bustling, he'd become quite pleased with the arrangement and did not wish to lose it.

Unfortunately, life had a way of changing on him, despite his best efforts to adhere to routine and careful planning. As the months passed, he sensed an uneasy energy growing in the doctor; not on emotional level, for he found he had difficulty reading emotions clearly unless he was searching for motive, but on a mere physical level. Some days, he would return to find the man pacing the stairs, seventeen up and seventeen down with absolutely no awareness of how much pain it caused him. On certain nights, he would hear the tapping of the cane far into the night, long after he retired to his chambers. Even when Watson sat, he appeared pensive in a manner that he'd not come to associate with the doctor.

He was not present when it came to the first of Watson's odd disappearances and did not learn of it until later. At the time, he'd ventured out into the streets to collect sediment from different areas of the city and had not arrived home until well-past supper. He'd noted, of course, that the doctor was not in but found it not at all alarming; it had been a fine day out and Watson tended to use those days to his full advantage. He arranged his samples on his desk and retired without food or drink or a thought about Watson's return. The moment he lay down, he was sound asleep and did not rise until the next morning when his stomach begged for sustenance. The doctor slept much later, as he normally did, and they did not speak of where he'd spent his day.

It was nearly two weeks later when he first saw that something was off and when he later thought of it, he felt distinctively aggrieved that his observational skills had failed him. He rose early and made his way into their shared chambers only to discover Watson out of bed, his face screwed up in a mask of pain and his hand kneading his shoulder. The night before, the Doctor had returned late and not dropped in to see him, going straight to his chambers. It bothered his roommate to see the clear cuts on his face and the dark bruise about his eye.

"Good heavens," he said, taking a seat. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Nothing," Watson groaned, letting go of his arm to reach over to the table.

"Nothing which requires you to inject yourself with morphine?" he inquired, as Watson shakily grasped at a syringe.

Watson did not take the bait, as he'd rather expected, but he did momentarily catch Holmes's gaze. "I had hoped to avoid it but if I don't do something for it, I may go mad. It's kept me awake all night."

The gaze that they traded requested privacy and he acquiesced for the moment. Instead of prying, he took careful note of everything on the doctor's person until the man slipped into a medicine induced daze. Breakfast arrived and he distracted himself with it and the morning paper before removing himself to check the entrance hall. Nothing of importance appeared present, even under the scrutiny of his magnify glass, so he chose to leave the mystery as a mystery for the moment. The rest of the day he practiced a few of the songs Watson enjoyed and worked with his latest project—a test for soils—and went to sleep early.

Over the next few days, he allowed himself to focus on Watson's movements but found nothing out of the ordinary. The Doctor did not take any excursions but spent most of his time as he normally did, in the house, scribbling or sleeping or reading or watching him go about his business; the only small detail he saw beyond the obvious blackened eye and the very sore arm was a newly acquired bag which Watson kept on his desk. Had he been a more intrusive man, he would've waited until Watson went elsewhere and looked inside, but this was not a case and his flat mate deserved privacy. So, he noted and stored, and completed his testing procedures.

Then Watson vanished again, the next Thursday, and he discovered by an irritated Mrs. Hudson that the man had forgotten to cancel his supper.

"If he intends on missing meals," she said, her face stormy, "which he cannot afford with his constitution, he can at least warn me so good food won't go to waste."

He raised an eyebrow. "You never complain when I don't mention my plans."

"Mr. Holmes," she said in a long-suffering tone. "I decided many, many months ago that if I only fixed you dinner when you would eat it, then I would never cook for you at all."

He sniffed the soup before he took a bite, deemed it worth his while, and consumed both his and Watson's portions. Then he sipped his tea and contemplated what Watson could possibly be up to. The facts did not add up; a man who was fairly conscientious both to the nag of a landlady and towards his own health had suddenly become both rude and ignorant of his own limitations. He smoked one pipe, then two, realized that the bag Watson kept was gone and retired. That night, he did not hear his flat mate return.

However, the next day, he discovered the man curled up in utter agony on the couch, clinging to his arm at the elbow as though it was attempting to fall off. Initially, he ignored this state and went about his business, reading, doing, observing; Watson's bag was back, his shoes—in the corner—were dusty and his cane had half an inch of dirt caked about it. Then the moaning began to bother him and he offered his services to administer pain relievers.

"No," Watson managed between gritted teeth. "No, it's not so bad."

"Clearly not as you can't seem to open your eyes or move," he retorted dryly. "Will you tell me what you are up to?"

A non-committal grunt answered him so he departed the tense atmosphere to see a concert and returned to find Watson abed and Mrs. Hudson annoyed. Neither surprised him and he informed the indignant woman that he was not his fellow's keeper and Watson, as a grown man, could do what he damn well pleased. If he wanted to do whatever he was doing even if it caused him pain, so be it.

"I'd expect you to have a little more concern for him," she sniffed.

"If he was being beaten, abused or, otherwise, ill-treated, I would see the situation rectified," he said. "But as far as I can tell, the man is knowledgably indulging in some form of self-abuse with the idea that he can handle it. I certainly will not stop him."

His breakfast was cold the next morning, even though he was up at his usual hour.

The following Thursday, he found himself on the streets when Watson left, loitering with the urchins that roamed the area, listening up on the information they could provide. When Watson limped out, his bag in his bad hand, leaning heavily on his cane, he followed. The air quality left something to be desired and by the second block, Watson puffed like a winded racehorse. He watched from a distance, observing something in a roadside stand when Watson glanced his way and dodging behind a carriage when the doctor frowned. Even with his fairly well-thought out disguise, he could not take the chance that Watson would notice him. While he would openly admit to following the man, he did not want to ruin their living arrangements; after all, a mad flat mate was almost as bad as a dead one.

They ended up in the stranger parts of town where he tended to find his opium and cocaine, and where unfortunates died in the gutters. Gambling, sex and drugs were the currency here and he could not fathom why the otherwise upstanding Doctor would come here at all. His practice had not yet been established—he insisted he could not easily care for the ill while he was still in such bad sorts—so he doubted Watson was visiting a patient. And while he had shown a penchant for gambling, Watson abhorred the cruelty of the cockfights and bearbaiting found here in the slums. He did not see the man betting and if he was, then why did he have the bag?

As though to prove him wrong, Watson turned into a pub he ventured to occasionally; by the time he followed, his flat mate had disappeared amongst the crowds betting on the fighting ring within. He stayed for a bit maneuvering betwixt sweaty drunks and nervous looking gentlemen only to find that Watson had vanished. He prowled, he subversively inquired and discovered that yes, they'd seen a man fitting his description in here. Sometimes there was a man who fit that description about. Of course, Guv, he's a brave one, him.

He returned home unimpressed and disappointed. This coupled with the injuries and the bag meant only one thing; Watson was not only gambling on games but he was probably fighting in them as well. Foolish, he thought scathingly, viciously sucking down the tea and puffing his way through the third pipe of the evening; the man was foolish. He made certain to not care when he heard Watson limp in, well into the early hours of the morning, and was out of the house before the Doctor was up again. His dinner that night was icy and poor to the taste.

"How do you expect me to sustain myself, woman?" he demanded in a fit of temper. "This food isn't fit to feed the dog!"

"Well, the dog gives people respect and concern," Mrs. Hudson replied with equal ire. She set the plate down in front of Gladstone who happily began to eat up. "Perhaps when you get to his level of manners, you'll find your food in better shape."

Instead, he found himself with a fit of attitude which lasted most of the next day and prevented him from going out to eat elsewhere. Sullen and unwilling to be caught as such, he went into his room, pulled the curtains and pretended to produce something ingenious. The landlady did not provide him with anything more than a plate of scones and some weak tea which he left for the dog. If it was war she wanted, he could fight as long as she could. He was sure that night to make quite a bit of noise, play his violin loudly and set the dog to howling so that no one in the vicinity got any rest.

Three days passed and when he sat down for his morning smoke—Mrs. Hudson did not bother to bring him anything to eat because when she did, he either upended it out the window on passing civilians or onto the fire or into the dog's chops—he found Watson looking wilted in the seat across from him, a warm, homely looking quilt wrapped about his shoulders. A strange instinct overcame him to inquire as to how his fellow was feeling but he held out against it, taking up the morning paper instead. Watson slurped at his tea in an annoying fashion, and through the pages, he could feel the Doctor's stare on him.

"Is everything well with you, Holmes?" he asked, finally.

"Quite," he answered shortly. "Except for our questionable service here. I have been thinking that I may need to find new lodgings should Nanny choose to continue this strike against me."

Mrs. Hudson, who was in the process of clearing away Watson's dishes, snorted but, to her credit, did not say a word. She swished out of the room like a self-righteous bird, tail spread, crest erect. He gave her a glare over the paper and out of the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of Watson's pale face and sunken eyes. A strange emotion he could not recognize overcame him and the paper drooped slightly.

"Yes, you two seem to be at odds," Watson agreed, tiredly. "Though I haven't the faintest clue as to why."

He let out an irritated huff. "She believes that I should play sitter to a full grown man and when I denied this, she took it upon herself to poison me until I change my mind."

"I do not follow," Watson admitted. He shifted in his seat and for the first time, his companion caught sight of a sling binding his arm across his chest. His knuckles looked scratched. "To whom are you referring?"

If he ever had a time to address the situation, it was now. "She's concerned about your fighting, sir, in the ring down at the Green Shamrock and thinks that as your companion, I ought to talk sense into you and fuss when you come home bruised and bloodied from your adventures."

Watson's complexion took a rather gray color and he blinked in a dazed fashion. "Fighting?"

"Yes, I can conclude that from your black eye and knuckles," he clarified. "Also, your shoulder; I've seen you fight once and you predominately use that arm to block. It would make sense that constant beating would cause you a great deal of pain though I am surprised that your leg is not bothering you more. The bag you've carried has concealed your fighting clothes as you are a pristine dresser and would not want to have blood covering you in the public eye. I must say though, Doctor, I would've never expected you to take to fighting when you have only just started to get your strength back. Are you not the same man who does not venture out when the air is too thick so that you do not relapse?"

Watson did not always follow him well, and he could not deduce on the same level but never had he viewed such a look of confusion. He ran his tired hand across his face, blinking owlishly. "I… think you have it wrong, old chap, though I can't believe I'm saying it. That's not the case at all."

He detested lying in the face of his obvious conclusions. "And how do you explain your trip to the Green Shamrock?"

"You've been following me?" A touch of annoyance in the otherwise mellow doctor's voice; he would have to be careful about that in the future.

"I felt it prudent to make certain my future was secure," he evaded. "So, yes, when you started to behave strangely, I did take it upon myself to follow you."

Watson let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. "You could've asked me where I was going."

He did not know why he hadn't thought of it but concluded that had he asked, Watson would have answered vaguely as he did the first morning he was in pain. "Would you have told me truthfully?"

"Yes," Watson told him. "Though I have not wanted to advertise it."

"Well, my good doctor, please inform me what you were up to in the Green Shamrock for the past four Thursdays?"

Watson let out a sigh and shifted, pulling the quilt more tightly around him. "Making this quilt, Holmes, with the women who wait for their husbands in the back. Every Thursday, they work on their sewing."

He blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Maneuvering the quilt helps the flexibility in my shoulder as does the stitching," he continued, a slight flush across his cheeks. "While I can do exercises here, finding something to produce through the therapy is far better than doing nothing. There's a reward beyond further range of motion which helps me… press on, even if the pain is great."

"You've been sewing," he said, stunned though he attempted not to show it.

"Yes, Holmes, not fighting, but sewing," Watson closed his eyes. "And not sleeping because of your noise day in and day out. Are you doing all right, beyond Mrs. Hudson's campaign against you?"

He ignored the question. "And the injuries?"

"Sewing machine incidences," the blush spread. "I was attempting to help Mrs. O'Reilly with hers because it got jammed and I caught my hand in it. My eye came from a similar incident."

It fit better than the fighting scenario which would've required Watson's leg to also show signs of strain. The bag, obviously, was filled with sewing supplies. The quilt lying over his companion looked messy in its construction but Watson wore it proudly all the same. All the facts lined up and yet, it had never crossed his mind that Watson would take up sewing. A military man, a sports player, a doctor; someone in these professions would have a rudimentary knowledge of stitching. And it made sense that Watson was starting to stretch his boundaries after spending so much time inside.

He cleared his throat. "Well, it is lovely, Doctor."

"Thank you," Watson replied, his voice soft. "And, despite the appearance, it's done wonders for my arm."

"I should like to see that, when you are up to it," he attempted to be conciliatory and hoped that Watson, though he had every right to, would not recollect this particular miscalculation in his writings.

"Of course."

They did not speak of it again and he stopped banging about at night which brought visible improvement to Watson's pallor over the next week. Nanny, however, still had him on her blackest list and they remained in battle for several months (though that is a different tale), forcing him to spend his spare money on clothes (as his no longer fit properly) and outside nourishment. And also, later, while doing some gambling and keeping an eye on his flat mate, he acquired a lovely quilt made by one Dr. J. Watson which stayed in his closet for future use.


End file.
